


Fuck you (affectionate)

by Lomanni



Category: Grand Theft Auto Series (Video Games), Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: Childhood Trauma, Comedy, Drug Use, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Other, Partners in Crime, Past Child Abuse, Post-Game(s), Recreational Drug Use, Spoilers, Trevor Philips Being an Asshole
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 13:56:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29917935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lomanni/pseuds/Lomanni
Summary: (Set after the events of GTA V)Two loveable idiots and their various escapadesMaybe,,, they will kith
Relationships: Amanda De Santa/Michael De Santa, Michael De Santa/Trevor Philips
Comments: 5
Kudos: 8





	1. Let's Hang Out!

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, guys. If you'd actually like me to continue this little fic, please let me know by leaving kudos or commenting :) I'm open to implementing suggestions, if you have any!
> 
> Content warning for this chapter: drug abuse, symptoms of drug abuse

A cacophony of screams and shattered dreams. Twisting, churning like a dark mirage at the bottom of a lake during the wee hours of the morning— a man, ambiguous in facial features but burly and fat in the gut, throws in some trash to feed the waters' depths.

Yes, yes this is a good depiction of his inside squish, Trevor decides.

His trailor creaks in the gentle plumes of wind, rusted and old and abused for the years that he's had it, and no doubt similarly treated before he took up residence. The sky, polluted but clear, is fairly bright for it being midnight, although he supposes this could also be a trick performed by the streetlights— you know, the idea that lights down on Earth make the ups and aboves look lighter because _fuck if he knows_. Down the street, to Trevor's right, one of the lamp's globes flickers and shorts periodically, a resounding hum acting as a makeshift clock to track time as it ticked past. Or, maybe sparked past would be more accurate. It was marginally annoying, enough so that he was trying to convince himself of having epilepsy so that he might have adequate motivation to look away from it. Why his body needed coaching and encouragement to merely preserve its own sanity was unknown, albeit he gathers his reaction wasn't unlike the kind of thing you see in a bank robbery: you tell them to open the vault, and they tremble and tumble like newborn animals, almost begging to be shot.

 _Tsk, tsk._ Those poor, subconsciously self-destructive bastards. Right?

Cracked lips part for Trevor's tongue to generously lap at the rim of his glass, droplets of whiskey collecting in the grooves of his tastebuds to burn like gasoline. He always hated that part about drinking— the burn, the awful taste as it carefully fucks your tonsils on the way down to your equally vile stomach. And it didn't lessen as you got more drunk, not in a noticeable way. Sure, the lava liquid was okay sometimes, and sometimes he wanted to hurt his mouth exactly in the way it could provide, but he wouldn't lie and say that he preferred alcohol to a nice line of cocaine or a bowl of crystals— fuck, even weakling amphetamine pills are a nicer refreshment, in his opinion.

A cockroach begins wriggling under his arm. It's filthy, receptive antennae widen his fragile capillaries and it's little, tiny cockroach dick starts fucking upwards to try and reach his cigarette-butt scar. Trevor swears loudly, curses the cockroach's name because it was mocking his childhood battles, and _how dare it do so!_

"Fuck, fuck, stop fucking and stop fucking itching!" He almost hits the doorway as he stumbles inside, left hand furiously ripping over the flesh of its brother in an attempt to quell the roach in his veins. Trevor knew there was really only one thing to sedate it, and it was never a permenant solution; the cockroach always got bigger and angrier once the medicine wore off, which drove him to take more and more each time he got this way.

Through shaking hands he barely managed to prepare his pipe. Pulling out a lighter in the depths of his pockets, he burns his only comfort and inhales it into the darkest reaches of his shrivelling lungs. Trevor feels them blooming like spring flowers waking up from hibernation when the meth reaches his aveoli, and quickly his annoying little friend stops its quest to escape through one of the many scars harboured on his body.

Nothing ever made him as happy as the meth. He'd tried coke, tried weed and tried every other self-destructive pleasure he could think of... Even tried a few healthy ones to mix it up. But none of them came close. The euphoria and confidence, the way it made everything feel good and okay— nothing came close, even after the high was long gone and he was trying to stave off consumption. It's like life's greatest gifts, ones he'd previously cherished, just weren't that interesting anymore; ice was a dampening depression that sucked the enjoyment out of daily activities and forced it's hand around his dick, holding him captive.

"No, only I get to jerk you off," he mumbles in impersonation of the friend mere inches from his face, thoughts quickly racing past the subject once his tongue stills back into his mouth for another mouthful. Self-confidence began to take over in place of his sobriety, and his heart rate picked up with each puff. Suddenly, it felt like he could work his slimey fingers straight through the union depository all over again, even without the help of his trusty friend and _slightly-less-trusty-but-more-valued_ best friend.

Speaking of Micheal, where had that bastard been over the past three weeks? Trevor had receeded back to his trailer, well aware that the journey was significantly greater than the retreat of his hairline across his head, but it wasn't as though Micheal was bound to ground like hair was to skin— he could drive over, even fly if he wanted to. So why hadn't he? He almost felt insulted, and probably would be if it wasn't for the euphoria clouding his head.

He should have a visit, he decides quickly, seeing as though the opposite clearly isn't happening on its own. Quickly, he launches from the couch and into the depths of his moldy wardrobe with unbelievable speed, his selection of clothing equally paced. Trevor strips off his jeans and white t-shirt, replacing them with his slightly fresher, cleaner selection of clothing: grey sweatpants with frayed drawstrings, a red flannel layered over a black tee and a pair of aviator shades.

Hey, he hadn't even worn the flannel before, so it was mostly clean.

Motivation seeps into his enlarged pores, encouraging him to take his efforts further. He moves to his bathroom, standing in front of the toilet to face the smashed mirror mounted behind it. The bottom was totally useless and distorted, the product of a rage fit he can't even recall, but the top was still in order. Similarly, his toilet lid has been ripped off and stood against the wall, waiting to be thrown out or screwed back on, but knowing deep down neither of those things will happen because Trevor would need to smoke ten tonnes of meth before he had the energy to get rid of it. Everything in here was broken or dirtied in some way... All except one thing: the shower. He's only used it once or twice, and the soap bar sitting in the allocated caddy is one the previous occupants left behind, half used and fully fused against the surface hosting it.

He reaches for a small comb at the bottom of his sink, missing a few times with his inebriated coordination, and begins combing through the tangles in his mullet. It hurts enough to make him grit his teeth but he bears through it for the sake of tidying up his appearance. After all, he was going to see his favourite brother in crime, and possibly his niece and nephew, if they had all managed to tolerate each other's existence enough to continue living together in the same house. Trevor didn't really think it was possible, but life never failed to surprise him, so he kept his mind open.

A crack dominates the left corner of his phone screen, and thick layers of grime outline the division between it and his case, glaringly orange so he wouldn't lose it so _fucking_ often. Well, that, and it was his favourite colour. It reminded him of the beach, sun, and warmth; everything Canada never got, and everything you could find in a nice hug. He taps into his messages, scrolls to find Michael's contact and opens it up. Previously, he'd waltzed in without warning— he did that to most people in his life. However, the reaction from Amanda, _pretty tits-McGee_ , was less than favourable and it soured his mood like milk left out of the fridge for too long, which he'd really rather avoid experiencing again. It was also bold of him to assume Micheal would be home in the first place, now that's he's turning his life around to do some director work with his idols and, _would you fucking believe it,_ he even takes runs on the beach some mornings. The circumstances begged for a warning about his arrival, and Trevor would indulge it, just this time.

"Hey

Itz me, Trevor im cming, to urs !!!!!!

be thre tommorrow .."

He attactches a heartfelt selfie featuring his middle finger, and hits send. Trevor was going to have some fun, whether Michael wanted him to or not.


	2. Phones are Overrated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peep my Trevor Philips playlist, y'all:  
> https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5jih92l9UJWNHeEM2Be2tc?si=-LxRnNWuROWzNzmHoKQOlw&utm_source=copy-link
> 
> No content warnings for this chapter!

"Argh, how long will this take?" Michael's cargo shorts were already beginning to chafe against the inside of his thighs, and it'd only been a grand total of ten minutes since he'd entered the repair shop. "Because I've got a coffee date real soon and I can't afford to sit around all day." His sunglasses sat atop the fresh haircut he sported, his back still itchy from the small strands stuck under his shirt. 

The receptionist turns on his heel with a quizzical face. His acne, blistering red with yellow and white putrid heads, makes it look as though he has a thousand eyes that he lays on Michael, the embodiment of _millennial know it alls_ and a really tough course of puberty, which the older man was greatful to have never experienced.

"Sir, it'll take a few hours at least," the teenager squeaks from behind the counter as though this fact was obvious. "You, like, totally bogged it by throwing it in the pool. We'll have to replace, like, the battery and stuff."

Michael couldn't tell what irritated him more: the annoying little kid and his annoying little face, or the situation that got them together in the first place.

Another stupid accident, another regression into _the good ol' days_ that weren't ever all that great, to be truthful. He'd gotten mad at Jimmy— snapped, because his fridge was filled with weed and beer that he didn't drink; classless booze, cheap from a supermarket and unlikely to be tasteful at all, useless apart from its miniscule alcohol content. Everything incriminating was thrown outside, including his son's bong, although admittedly he now thinks he went a bit far with that, since it was in his room and out of the way, at the very least. He'd been chucking everything into the pool, smashing bottles on the edge. Anger was boiled into a nice stew with the bile in his stomach, and his yelling fits had threatened to bring the concoction up onto the tiles under his sandals. Then, his phone had buzzed in his pocket, and for some stupid reason, Michael had decided to throw that in too without even checking what the notification was about, too far into his rage to see straight.

Fuck, he was a moron.

Now, here he was, trying to get it repaired lest he miss something important, all the while being on a time constraint. After the whole incident, he'd promised to go get coffee with the kids and Amanda, maybe see a movie if there was anything good at the cinemas. Make it up to them, keep them happy, that kind of thing.

"Does it seriously take that much time? To change a battery?!"

The kid seems to question himself for a moment, squinting into space with a contemplative expression. "Uh... I guess so?" He finally answers, shrugging his shoulders a little.

Jimmy would be a great employee here since half the job is about sitting on your ass, Michael thinks to himself.

"You know what? Just let me know when it's done," he sighs, walking towards the door of the shop. The sun outside was bright and warm, perfect for a day out and away from technology, really, so the tragic loss of his mobile phone wasn't all that large.

"Uh- but sir- we won't be able to call you!"

Michael purses his lips into a thin line. A small huff of steam escapes from his ears, and he raises his brows. His expression was pretty clear: _isnt that obvious?_ Maybe it wasn't; the kid's brain was probably half-rotten by porn and weed, the rest of it preoccupied with trying to make a liveable wage so he can move out of his parent's place before he ends up in a wheelchair and unable to descend to his basement-bedroom. "I'll just come by in the afternoon," Michael suggests impatiently, then pushes on a metal handlebar attached to the shop's glass door. The cool breeze ruffles his shirt when he exits onto the pathway, with it a sense of relief and calm dipped in the scent of cigarettes and salt swept up from the sea. Focusing on the little positive, the good things, was important, his shrink had told him over the phone. Turning his attention towards that which he should be greatful of can, apparently, help to dissolve anger and other negative emotions. Wether or not he actually wanted to be calm sometimes varied from circumstance to cirsunstance, but De Santa would ultimately agree in saying that life's littlest pleasures brought the most joy. The atmosphere was wonderul, enough so that one was almost able to forget the trash displaced in gutters and crackheads strewn amongst alleyways.

Michael's car has a carbon roof and a wine red coating everywhere else— black, with a red reflection in the light that reminds him of wine and movie theatre seats. In true spirit of it all, the air freshener hooked around his front fans is popcorn scented. It smells absolutely nothing like the real thing, and it's actually kind of revolting to him, but the aesthetics matched in theory so he felt it was worth enduring. Besides, over time, that 'popcorn' smell _had_ gotten more bearable, like actual popcorn rather than butter made from piss.

Turning his key and pulling the gear back to drive, he pulls out of his parking space and rolls forward, mind drifting to nowhere in particular. Driving, even for short distances, was a sort of therapy to Michael; something about the repetition and second nature lulled him into a sense of security similar to a cool glass of whiskey after work. Things got hazy, and he didn't have to worry about them for a while.

Alas, sometimes, those _whiles_ were pretty small. Before he knows it, Michael is pulling up at the coffee shop, his wonderful family already seated on an outside table just barely shaded by the umbrella screwed through its middle. Shit, was he late? Perhaps not, because no one scorns him when he walks up and takes a seat besides Tracey and Amanda, Jimmy seated across from him and buried into his phone.

"Alright, guys, can we agree to no tech at the table?" There's no response from his target audience, although from the corner of his eye he catches Tracey nodding and slipping her own device back into her shorts. "Jimmy," he repeats softly. Keeping his cool was critical here, like avoiding crashing into a pole when you were making a getaway. Michael was escaping his anger and the criminality of his past, driving a million miles an hour and afraid to be dragged back. He wanted to avoid hitting obstacles wherever posisble— he'd already failed that last night.

"Jimmy!" This time, Amanda yells, her gorgeously blue eyes hidden by the squint of her darkly coated lashes. Her beauty was captivating, even as she grew older and the wrinkles around her mouth became more prominent. Stress had hardly aged her, like a hidden diamond in the depths of an excavated mine, untouched by corruption and violence. It made his heart strings play a tune every time he looked at her, even if it was when they were screaming about each other's problems and an inch away from stabbing one another.

"Jeez, I was just updating my social media, mom. Chill out!" 

"Well, why does the whole word need to know you're getting coffee?" Michael butts in.

"Uh, because that's what we do now? You're too old to get it, dad. Talking about everything online is _cool_ now!"

"Maybe if I had a phone, you could teach me _all_ about that."

"It's not my fault that you don't." Jimmy was right, of course. His little hoard of drugs was definitely taking up space, but the rage it ignited was uncalled for, and Michael throwing his mobile was totally unrelated— just a product of nerves lit on fire by the unfortunate gasoline of being a father and having to deal with its bullshit consequences.

"I want a coffee frappe with caramel syrup," Tracey interrupts the silence that had settled in the space between them all. The whole world liked to think of her as a dumb stripper-to-be, and sometimes she certainly acted like it, he couldn't deny. But what most people didn't know—or just decided to neglect—was the intelligence behind those revealing clothing choices and the flamboyant tone of voice. She was a great deescalator; had a talent for bringing down tension in a situation because she was exemplary at making people care about her and then applying that love towards the end goal of being peaceful for her sake and, as an ulterior motive, their own sake, too. Michael could see right through the idiocy, and cherished his sight for allowing him to do so. She was a smart girl in her own ways, like a real Townley... Or, De Santa. Jimmy was smart, too, but he was definitely the more problematic of the two which leads to less credit being given where it's due.

"Sure, sweetie," Michael smiles, waving his hand to signal departure from conversing about yesterday's problems. "What would you like, Amanda? Jimmy?"

* * *

Trevor's ute makes a rumbling noise as it goes up Michael's driveway, stopping short of the garage door. He practically jumps out and jogs to the front door, it's stained glass panes casting coloured shadows against his surroundings. 

"Knock, knock!" He yells loudly. The space under his eyes was slightly sunken and purpled, his precious beauty sleep robbed by the long journey. Still, Trevor didn't feel tired; meth kept him awake like the worst of insomnia cases, and there was a secret excitement building somewhere inside him over the prospect of hanging out with his dearest friend— probably his liver, since the pair loved drinking together so often.

Trevor counts to three, a polite number, before actually knocking on the door. It wasn't the crack of dawn, by any means, but the sun wasn't at its peak in the sky, either, meaning the fat bastard that was Michael De Santa could be asleep, snoring his ass off beneath silky sheets.

Still, there was no surprise.

He groans, irritates his vocal cords and grinds his worn teeth. Forewarning had proven to be a fruitless precaution. Trevor slips his shoe off, digging out two small steel shapes from the spot under his heel. One piece was bent at a right angle on the end, whereas the other was considerably haphazard with its miniature curves and bumps. Slotting them into the door's keyhole, he makes fairly quick work of its mechanism, his shaky hands trained by years of petty break ins and general know-how, some of it from the military, the rest from prison inmates.

_Clink!_

In grandiose fashion, the door is swung on its hinges until it can't move further, a handy doorstop no doubt implemented for protection against Michael's entrances stopping it from creating a nasty whole in the wall. Trevor enters with his arms raised to his sides, pace slow and quiet so that his ears might tune in to peoples' whereabouts. But, the thing is, he hears nothing. When he calls, there's no answer, not even from one of the kids.

_Where is that bastard?_

He searches the house, turning it inside out in search of his friend. Like he was withdrawing, he was frantic and mad, throwing pillows off couches and yelling nonsensical curses to absolutely no one. Even the lounge chairs outside didn't have a fat ass plastered on them; Michael really wasn't home, despite having received a message specifying Trevor's arrival. Maybe he was just running late? It'd be uncharacteristic for him to be out so early, though. Maybe there was an accident? Who knows what kind of douchebag Tracey is trying to fuck for fame these days, the altercation with the Fame or Shame guy— _what was his name?—_ likely taught her nothing about the manipulative capability of men in power.

"Hey itz, me, agan

wher Ru??

Plz call me M"

He may as well make himself at home, he thinks sadly. Wooden barstools hardly comfort his bony behind, and the towering white walls wherever he looked were like a prison cell— although the physical amount of space was monumental, he felt cramped spiritually, like a kid locked in their closet by deadbeat parents, oxygen replaced by the thick smell of smoke as it floated through the shutters... Though, in this case, the intoxicating scent is actually burnt toast.

Trevor honestly felt mildly hurt. He wouldn't tell Michael that until their third drink together, maybe the fourth if his tongue felt a little stiffer than usual, but the pang in his chest was certainly present. To make the situation worse, time was ever so slow, ticking past at an inch of its regular pace. If he didn't want to succumb to the deadly waves of boredom and suffocate to death, he'd need to entertain himself while he waited— given that a bowl of crystal definitely wasn't a viable option, he chose to pull out his phone, mindlessly sweeping through various websites in search of something interesting. LifeInvader was certainly promising; his favourite brand of cigarettes was beefing with a middle aged blonde with an angled bob cut because, apparently, their cigars tasted too much like smoke, whatever that meant. Ron was also blabbering mindlessly about aliens and mind-controled tractors that poisoned America's crops.

_Wait._

Trevor brings the screen closer to his face, thick, bushy brows joining together in a knitted line resembling the face of concentration. Jimmy had posted about two minutes ago, which by itself wasn't out of the ordinary seeing as though the pathetic kid _lived_ in online spaces these days, but the contents of the post were the kind to make Trevor's blood boil, make the edges of his vision sting white with fury that's never truly been under control.

"Hanging out with dad, sis and mom. Getting killer coffee for the morning!!!! Beer comes later L O L

#FAMILYGATHERING

#MYDADISSTILLPSYCHO"

 _That son of a bitch._ Michael had chose desertion, leaving Trevor in the plain, prisonous mansion he called home. Did the text message mean absolutely nothing? Shit, maybe he didn't want to be on speaking terms anymore.

Thinking about abandonment makes the cockroach in his arteries come back for a little exploration, although he can swat it away this time, his skin red with a handprint after doing so and the sound echoing around him for several seconds. Anxiety makes his foot tap, or perhaps it's rage— both were eerily similar for the damaged man, he acknowledged. Still, it's not like this situation was bringing about end times, and a rational part of him understood this, but the twisted figure of envy still burgled his mind-space, snacking on grey matter and firing neurons to send him into absolute panic. Trevor felt rejected, plainly, and he wanted to beat himself up over it for the reason that the catalyst of these emotions he was experiencing was so minimal; so nonchalant and unimportant that it made him look like a possessive lover with serious relationship issues.

And, fuck, he certainly didn't love Michael. He despised him with all his might, channeled his entire focus on the betrayal against him and the white lies told to him before bed each night when he couldn't sleep straight away. It was theraputic in a sense, since it gave him a reasonable factor to blame all his problems—all his _feelings—_ onto. He had so many feelings. So many thoughts. And the best way to explain them was Michael in a bad light.

A bird chirps outside. It sounded happy, full-bellied and satisfied with its life. Trevor envies it for a moment, his mental state gradually drooping out of his nostrils and down the kitchen island, but he pulls himself back into his skull before he can totally dissolve into depressive introspection. He'd sit here, wait for the De Santa household to return, and then pounce. Force Michael to go out with him— not like that. Have fun. Hang out. All the good stuff he came here for that meth promised him with gentle whispers in his ears the night before.

Fucking Michael, traitorous as ever, he thought.


End file.
